


The Coronavirus Chronicles

by bluevalentine69



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, C-Virus, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Doctor Merlin (Merlin), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Fluff and Smut, Kid Fic, Love, M/M, Marriage, Merlin and Arthur are Dads, Pandemics, Parenthood, Partnership, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevalentine69/pseuds/bluevalentine69
Summary: In a world under siege, with Merlin on the frontline as a doctor, and Arthur left at home to raise their son, they still manage to find security and peace in each other, amidst the chaos and tragedy.***Inspired by current global events and the coronavirus pandemic - or 'Covid-19' - this fic imagines the impact of a similar, but more serious viral outbreak, Covid-22.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur looks up as he hears the front door close. He sees Wilfred, his boisterous four year old son, look up at the same time, and scramble down from the kitchen table to rush into the hall.

“Daddy!” he yells joyfully, and Arthur hears a weary chuckle.

“Did Papa let you have chocolate for supper again?” he hears Merlin ask, and shrugs helplessly at his husband as they both walk into the kitchen, Wilfred snug in Merlin’s arms.

“In my defence, I did tell him shepherd’s pie was on its way,” he explains stoutly, stomach dropping as he sees the purple skin beneath Merlin’s eyes, the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw. Merlin shakes his head slightly at him, reading the concern in Arthur’s expression and communicating a silent _not now_. It’s been three days since he was last home.

“It was a starter,” Wilfred says to Merlin with huge blue eyes, and Arthur’s stomach contracts again at the two dark heads pressed together, their son the spitting image of his biological father. Nothing in the world is more precious to him than his boys.

“Your fault,” Merlin says tiredly, smiling at Arthur. “We don’t do ‘starters’ in the Welsh marshes.”

“Grandpa always buys me a starter,” Wilfred agrees, wriggling down and leading Merlin to the table to show him his creation of the day: a castle made of straws and sticky tape. Merlin looks at Arthur pointedly and Arthur grins. Wilfred may look like the spit of Merlin, but his personality is all Pendragon. “How long are you back for?” Arthur asks, draining broccoli and peas and green beans. Merlin strokes a hand through Wilfred’s messy black hair as he admires his work, turning slightly to look at Arthur.

“48 hours,” he says quietly, eyes apologising, and Arthur nods. Since the outbreak of Covid-22 nine days ago, Merlin’s been on the frontline as an A&E consultant. The death toll hit nearly 70,000 yesterday in England alone; nearly half of those in London. St Thomas’ Hospital, where Merlin works in Westminster, is one of the leading research centres for tropical diseases, and it hit capacity three days into the pandemic.

“48?” Wilfred asks excitedly, ears sharp as a fox, “wow that’s loads, isn’t it papa? Loads!” Arthur tries to smile but isn’t sure he manages.

“Supper’s ready,” he says instead. “Push Castle Camelot to one end of the table, please, so we can set places.” Wilfred happily climbs onto a chair to tidy and Merlin presses a brief kiss to Arthur’s shoulder as he moves past him to the cutlery drawer, to get knives and forks.

“It’s so nice to be home,” he sighs, slipping his arms around Arthur’s chest on his way back to the table. Arthur turns and pulls him into his arms, holding him tightly, breathing in the faint smell of hospital disinfectant mingled with Merlin’s favourite sea foam shampoo. Merlin clings to him, and Wilfred observes them quietly from the table, chewing his lip.

“Bath and bed for daddy after supper,” Arthur instructs Wilfred briskly, and Wilfred nods seriously, satisfied that everything’s under control. “I love you,” Arthur murmurs more privately, against Merlin’s bowed head. “We’re all so proud of you.” It takes Merlin a couple of moments to pull away, but eventually he does draw back, eyes glistening, and presses a chaste kiss to Arthur’s lips, squeezing him slightly before heading towards the table.

“How are papa’s lessons?” he asks, setting the table and putting out water and squash for everyone.

“Different to school,” Wilfred says comfortably. “We’re reading the encyclopaedia today instead of _Jane and John_. And we used money counting to do maths. I made five pounds.” Merlin laughs, eyes crinkling as he turns to look at Arthur warmly.

“It sounds like he’s an excellent teacher,” he says to his son, coming over to carry plates to the table, followed by Arthur.

“Can’t make head or tail of all the phonics nonsense the school sent home with him. We’re doing a letter of the alphabet each day, aren’t we buddy?” Arthur plonks himself down next to Wilfred and ruffles his hair. Wilfred nods enthusiastically from around a mouthful of mash potato.

“On Monday we did ‘A’, and learned about archery, arithmetics and astrology. Papa let me stay up late to use a telescope to try and find the North Star. Yesterday was ‘B’ and we did biowarfare, biology and baking. We planted tomato seeds and made flapjacks. And today was ‘C’, when we learned about chivalry and construction.” Merlin puts his fork down and laughs helplessly, sliding his foot between Arthur’s under the table and rubbing his ankle.

“That’s why you made a castle?” he asks, and Wilfred nods, looking at Merlin confused.

“What’s funny?” he says, wrinkling his nose, forehead furrowed.

“Your father,” Merlin responds fondly. Wilfred looks up at Arthur to share the joke. Arthur shrugs at him and points at his peas.

“Eat, please,” he says. Wilfred huffs and obeys.

“Domesticity suits you,” Merlin comments, and Arthur catches his eye, seeing the raw approval, the respect and love and appreciation glimmering beneath something stronger, more burning. They both flush slightly, reading each other’s body language, and Merlin clears his throat. “How’s work?” he asks.

“Bloody awful,” Wilfred chips in, mouth full of mince. Arthur looks down at him in surprise.“Language, mister!” he chastises him. Wilfred swallows and pouts.

“S’what you said to Auntie Morgie,” he mutters, flattening potato with his fork. Arthur didn’t know he’d been listening.

“Pointless,” he says shortly, letting it go and turning back to Merlin. “Stock markets have crashed, trading’s been suspended for the second time this week.” Merlin shakes his head.

“Whole world’s collapsing,” he comments.

“It’s a fucking catastrophe,” Wilfred agrees sagely.

“Wilfred!” Arthur exclaims, horrified. Morgana did use those exact words, he remembers, reluctantly impressed by their son’s recall. Wilfred rolls his eyes at him.

“We learned about ‘catastrophe’ today too,” he explains to Merlin. “I didn’t know what it meant, and he said your cooking.” Merlin snorts, raising an amused eyebrow at Arthur.

“Oh, thanks very much,” Arthur grouses, making a face at his son.

“Well, you did.” Wilfred says imperiously.

“It’s true that you’re far better off stuck at home with papa than me,” Merlin says agreeably. “We’d be living off baked beans.”

“You’d have to find some in the shops first,” Arthur retorts, desperate for a glass of wine. Merlin looks at him.

“Still bad?” he asks.

“No more delivery slots for six weeks,” Arthur replies. “So Wilfred and I ventured out yesterday, didn’t we buddy?”

“There were policemen and soldiers watching us, and we had to queue, and everyone was wearing masks.”

“Did you wear the masks I gave you from the hospital?” Merlin asks sharply, and Arthur nods.

“Gloves too,” Wilfred chips in. Merlin visibly relaxes. “All the shelves were empty, apart from the fresh food.”

“Dad sent a package of essentials special delivery from Wiltshire,” Arthur adds. “Small country village stores seem to have more supply. Less people bulk buying, I guess.”

“He sent four bottles of gin,” Wilfred grins. “And nougat and brie.”

“Essentials,” Merlin nods wryly.

“He _also_ sent rice and pasta and hand soap and loo paper,” Arthur chips in. “Which was handy, given we’d resorted to kitchen roll.” Merlin looks at him in concern.

“You know the army’s bringing emergency supplies for NHS workers to the hospital? Let me know what we’re running short on, and I’ll go foraging.” Arthur shakes his head.

“You have enough to worry about,” he says. “We’re doing fine.”

“Auntie Morgie said we should move to the country with her and Uncle Lion and grandpa, but papa said we wouldn’t leave you.” Merlin’s eyes flick to Arthur’s guiltily. Arthur shakes his head in his own silent warning. It’s not a discussion he’s prepared to have.

*

Arthur clears up supper whilst Merlin and Wilfred take a bath together. He hears Merlin reading Wilfred a bedtime story ( _The Jolly Postman_ ) as he pours two glasses of red wine and heads into the sitting room. As an afterthought, he takes the bottle with him. He’s watching the latest news headlines when Merlin comes down - four doctors have now died from the virus. His insides chill.

“They didn’t have the right protective equipment,” Merlin says reassuringly, climbing onto the sofa beside him in joggers and Arthur’s old university rugby sweater. Merlin had stolen it a month into dating (or ‘having sex with’) Arthur, and never given it back. 

“Do _you_?” Arthur asks, wrapping an arm around Merlin and handing him a glass of red. Merlin lifts both his legs over Arthur’s lap, pressing his feet against the sofa arm, and uses his free hand to cup Arthur’s face.

“We were one of the first hospitals hit; we got PPE before the government even knew it was the start of an epidemic. We were lucky.” Arthur nods, leaning back against the sofa and pulling Merlin’s head closer, kissing him softly.

“How bad is it?” Merlin takes a large gulp of wine and moans appreciatively.

“God I’ve missed alcohol.”

“I’ll tell dad he made you orgasm.” Merlin snorts and covers his nose with his hand, choking slightly. “Don’t change the topic,” Arthur chides. Merlin swallows and looks down.

“You know it’s bad, Arthur,” he says softly. “We’ve run out of beds, and ventilators, and tests. People are dying in the corridors and the morgue is full, so bodies are being picked up by the military and taken to industrial incinerators. Families aren’t getting to say goodbye.”

“Jesus,” Arthur mutters, rubbing Merlin’s neck. “Are you sleeping? Eating?” Merlin nods, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“In theory we’re on eight hour shifts, with two hour naps in between, giving us six hours of sleep in every 24 hour period.”

“And in reality?” Merlin takes another drink.

“On for about sixteen hours, sleeping for four. We’re surviving on vending machine coffee and chocolate and canteen sandwiches.” Arthur finishes his wine and wraps both arms around Merlin, kissing his head. “Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly. “We’re not discussing it.”

“Arthur, you’d be safer in the country. I’m putting you and Wilf at risk every time I come home. Think of him.”

“We’re a family,” Arthur says. “We stay together.”

“ _Arthur,_ ” Merlin huffs, sitting up and pressing his forehead against Arthur’s. “They’re going to lockdown the city soon. You need to get out before they do that.”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur says again, gripping Merlin’s arms and shaking him slightly. “What if this goes on for six months? Or a year? Longer? Do you seriously think I’d agree to separating for that long? Wilf needs you just as much as I do.”

“We can Skype, like everyone else,” Merlin argues. “Most of my colleagues’ families have already left to stay with relatives. Even mum wants Wilf out of London. She _knows_ what that’d do to me, and she still thinks it’s best.”

“Bully for her,” Arthur says stubbornly. “We’re staying.” Merlin peels back from him in frustration, sitting on his own side of the sofa.

“What are you going to do when you can’t leave the house? When the shops run out of food? When deliveries are cancelled? When thugs start breaking into other people’s houses to find what they need? It’s not _safe_ ,” Merlin says imploringly. “Please, _please_ take Wilf somewhere safer.” Arthur closes his eyes.

“If you want me to take Wilf to your mum, or dad and Morgs, then I will, but _I’m_ coming back. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d leave you behind. Would you leave me?” Arthur looks at Merlin hard, and Merlin’s face is torn, and desperate, but he swallows and shakes his head. “Exactly,” Arthur says. “So the question is, do you really want Wilf to live without either of his parents for the foreseeable future?” Merlin stares at the carpet. “He’s got us, he’s got the garden, he’s got a room full of books and toys, he’s got the TV and Skype playdates with his friends. He’s happy. We’re keeping the home fires burning for you as a team. The only thing that matters at the moment is family. We’re yours.”

“And I’m yours, and I don’t want to be the reason you’re in danger,” Merlin says, putting his wine down and climbing back into Arthur’s lap. Arthur kisses him and groans as Merlin’s tongue slides against his, hands buried in Arthur’s hair, cock hardening against him. Despite their mutual hardness they kiss without intent, content just to indulge in each other’s closeness, reassuring each other with softness; gentle, comforting intimacy. Eventually they pause to breathe, Merlin shuddering against him, kissing Arthur’s neck as Arthur strokes his hair.

“The whole world is in danger,” Arthur says, some time later. “Everything’s a game of chance now. If one or all of us only has a few days or weeks or months left, then we’re spending that time together. I want every minute of you that I can get.”

“Ed said you’d be difficult,” Merlin murmurs with a resigned grimace, twisting in Arthur’s embrace to pour more wine.

“Well, by all means, listen to the ex,” Arthur grouses, accepting his refilled glass and taking a large draught. Merlin peers at him over the rim of his own glass.

“Are you ever going to get over the fact that I wasn’t a virgin when I met you?” he asks blithely, pressing another kiss to Arthur’s lips. Arthur shakes his head defiantly.

“Nope. I’m scheduled to be irrationally possessive forever I’m afraid.” Merlin rolls his eyes with a small smile. “Besides,” Arthur grumbles. “How many people _work_ with their ex? You spend more time with him than me these days.”

“He’s married - to a woman - with three kids, honey. I think he’s over our brief med school days of experimentation.” Arthur snorts.

“Unlikely,” he scoffs. A slow smile spreads across Merlin’s face.

“You’re handsome when you’re jealous,” he murmurs contentedly, rubbing his face against Arthur’s neck. “I know it’s only eight o’clock, but come to bed with me? I’m knackered and I want to snuggle.”

“Lightweight,” Arthur smirks. “If you want to experience true exhaustion, try spending a day at home with your son.” Merlin raises an eyebrow.

“ _Our_ son,” he amends lightly. He’s been painstaking about terminology ever since the last round of IVF with their surrogate failed last year. They’d tried three times with Arthur’s sperm, and each time Megan had miscarried. They’d all agreed to give it a break for a while; it became too distressing for everyone involved.

“He’s ours,” Arthur agrees, “but he’s also definitely _yours_. He bites his lip when he’s thinking in the same way that you do. And he rolls his eyes at me in the same way. It must be a genetic predisposition to mock anyone of the Pendragon bloodline.”

“I’ve never mocked Morgana,” Merlin points out, standing up and pulling Arthur after him, switching off lights as he heads to bed. 

“That’s because she’d eat you,” Arthur says dismissively, pressing closely behind Merlin and kissing his neck as they climb the stairs.

As soon as they’re in their room, briefly checking on a softly snoring Wilfred on their way, Arthur closes and bolts the door, pressing Merlin against it and kissing him hungrily, locking their mouths together, fingers scrambling to remove material and find skin. They spend long minutes simply kissing, touching, shivering and naked, stomachs wet with the slick of their precum, Merlin panting against Arthur’s neck as Arthur’s hand moves between his legs, two fingers rubbing against his hole. He gasps and drops his head back, widening his legs slightly, aching for Arthur, and whimpers as Arthur steps away, pulling Merlin’s wrist and pushing him down on to the bed. He crawls over him, kissing his way down Merlin’s body, biting his nipples, the skin between his thighs, hot mouth engulfing Merlin’s cock as a citrusy warming lubricant touches Merlin’s hole. Merlin bites his lip and arches involuntarily, feet on Arthur’s shoulders, floating in bliss as he’s sucked and finger-fucked, Arthur’s hot mouth and hot fingers massaging his most intimate of places, providing nothing but sheer relaxation and pleasure, total respite from his last few days in frontline hell.

All too soon he feels the familiar tightening of his groin, and muffles his groan with his hand as he pulses his release into Arthur’s mouth, body spasming with aftershocks as his limbs go limp with fatigue. Arthur spreads his legs and kneels between them, pulling Merlin’s arse into his lap and pushing inside him quickly, fucking him with urgent need until Merlin feels the heat of semen burst inside him. Arthur comes silently, mouth pressed against Merlin’s damp neck, and stays inside him as he softens, kissing the skin behind Merlin’s ear as Merlin strokes soothing hands up and down his back, over his thighs.

“I love you so much,” Merlin mumbles into his hair, half asleep, body finally sinking into unconsciousness. “I’m glad you’re here.” He curls into Arthur’s arms as Arthur withdraws and rolls onto his back, pulling Merlin against his chest.

“Sleep,” Arthur whispers. “I’ve got you.”

*

When Merlin blinks awake, he’s momentarily disoriented to see the Oxford blue walls of their Victorian townhouse bedroom, instead of the grey panelling of the hospital cubicles. The vague ache in his groin and lower back reminds him that he’s in his marital bed, and that he’s got another blissful day and a half of family time before his next shift begins. He stretches and delights in the feeling of smooth, cool sheets against his naked body, slowly allowing his eyes to adjust to the light in the room; he can tell it’s already past mid-morning.

“You slept for _ages_ ,” a disgruntled voice says from the corner, and Merlin rolls onto his tummy to see Wilfred sitting in their armchair, reading a book. “Papa said I couldn’t wake you.” Merlin thanks the universe, for at least the ten millionth time, for blessing him with the God that is his husband. He’d been so certain that it was just lust at the beginning; inexplicable, manic lust for the rude, Adonis stock trader he’d met at a charity fundraiser, something that could be fucked out of his system. But the fucking had felt too good, and the pillow-talk too intimate, and the mind-bending sex had continued until Merlin had realised he was stupidly in love with the most exasperating and wonderful man he’d ever met in his life. Somehow he’d gone and won the lottery without realising it, and he’s not stopped saying thank you ever since.

“Sorry buddy,” Merlin says, voice gruff with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Papa and me just had lunch,” Wilfred sniffs disapprovingly. “He’s making bacon and eggs for you.” Merlin’s mouth waters slightly and he opens his arms, smiling as Wilfred bounds off the chair and on to the bed, snuggling against him on top of the duvet cover.

“Don’t you have any pyjamas on?” Wilfred asks curiously.

“I got hot,” Merlin explains, thinking quickly, tweaking his son’s nose. “What are you learning today? It’s ‘D’ isn’t it?”

“Dinosaurs, dragons and the dangers of drink driving,” Wilfred says, looking up at Merlin with blue eyes.

“You’re lucky to have such an inventive teacher,” Merlin says with a grin.

“Papa says I can play with you this afternoon instead,” Wilfred says eagerly. “He’s sad today I think.” Merlin frowns, smoothing out the crease between his son’s eyes with his thumb.

“Why’s he sad?” Merlin asks quietly. Wilfred shrugs.

“He watched the news this morning.” Merlin curses the fact he left his mobile downstairs last night, so he can’t check the headlines.

“Well, we’ll have to cheer him up, won’t we?” he says cheerfully, sitting up and wincing as he feels dried semen flaking between his legs. “Why doesn’t daddy have a quick shower and get dressed, and then we’ll all do something together? What do you fancy?”

“I think we should build a lego fortress,” Wilfred says excitedly, beaming at Merlin. “With a moat!”

“Well of _course_ with a moat,” Merlin agrees, tickling him. “Go and tell papa I’ll be down in five minutes.” Wilfred presses a kiss to his cheek and scrambles off the bed in his haste to get to his toy box downstairs, no doubt. Merlin waits for the door to close before climbing out from under the covers and walking into their en-suite shower room for a scorching blast of hot water. He lets it run over his still-tired body for a few minutes, soothing his aching muscles, briefly remembering the lazy days before children, when showering with Arthur was a sensual shagging opportunity, before switching it off and moving to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. He gets dressed in flannel loungers and one of Arthur’s thick tartan shirts, feeling a strange need to be enveloped in Arthur as much as possible whilst he’s home. Being wrapped in his husband’s smell is wonderfully comforting, and he smiles as he pulls on thick cashmere socks and pads downstairs. Wilfred is upturning boxes in their sitting room, so Merlin leaves him to it and heads into the kitchen, where Arthur is plating up a full English breakfast. Merlin wraps his arms around him and kisses him like they’re in the finale of an American high-school movie.

“Remember when we could spend my days off in bed?” he sighs, hardening uncomfortably at the heated look Arthur gives him, the slow nod. “God, you’re so fucking _hot_ in that apron,” he murmurs against Arthur’s mouth, rubbing himself against Arthur’s thigh. He groans as Arthur’s warm palm slides underneath his shirt and up his spine.

“Are you trying to drive me mad on purpose, wearing my clothes?” Arthur asks gruffly, kissing him but moving away, manoeuvring him towards the table. “Eat before it gets cold,” he instructs, heading to get his iPad. “And your mum wants to Skype, so I’ve said you’ll call her whilst you eat.” He sets up the call and puts the screen in front of Merlin, leaving them to it as soon as he hears Hunith’s voice. He sits in the hallway for a moment, not yet ready to put on a positive face again for his son. The news this morning had been horrifying. The number of confirmed deaths in just the UK has nearly doubled overnight, now around 130,000. The death toll globally has hit 1.5 million. It’s staggering for a new virus to travel this quickly, to infect so many, to kill so many. London is now officially on lockdown. They’re basically living in a war zone. And whatever he said to Merlin last night, trying to work, and single-handedly keep house, and act as both a teacher and a parent to their son - not to mention a supportive, patient partner to a doctor putting his life on the line every week - is starting to take its toll. The sitting room door opens, and Wilfred peers out, coming over to Arthur and clambering onto his lap, hugging him tightly.

“It’s okay papa,” he says, stroking Arthur’s hair. “Daddy’s okay.” Arthur nods into his hair, choked up, squeezing him tightly.

“He’s speaking to grandma,” he says with a smile. “Why don’t you go and say hello and we’ll start building your fortress afterwards.” Wilfred nods eagerly and climbs down, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s cheek before he does so.

“Love you papa,” he says with a grin, and Arthur kisses his head.

“I love you too, little man,” he smiles, closing his eyes as the kitchen door bangs.

They’ve started on the fortress battlements, listening to some awful 90s pop classics radio show, and discussing snack possibilities, when Merlin’s work phone buzzes. He glances at Arthur and climbs to his feet, walking into the hall to retrieve his phone from its charging point.

“Fuck,” Arthur hears him mutter, and Wilfred scrunches up his face as Arthur follows Merlin into the hall. “I’ve been called in,” Merlin says lowly, mindful of their son. “Two doctors have collapsed, they’re running short.”

“You’ve had less than 24 hours off,” Arthur objects, putting a hand on Merlin’s waist, pulling him close. “It’s not safe to do back-to-back shifts without proper breaks. That’s how accidents happen.”

“There are queues of people dying, Arthur,” Merlin mutters. “Apparently the car park is full of patients waiting to be assessed. The hospital is starting to only treat patients under 50, in the hope that they have the highest chance of survival. It’s barbaric, they need all the help they can get.”

“Why have two doctors collapsed?” Arthur presses. “I thought you said you all had the right PPE?”

“We do. I don’t know. Fatigue? If they’ve caught the virus they’re more likely to have contracted it in a supermarket on their way home from work.” Merlin begins to head upstairs to get ready, and Arthur almost follows him, desperate to touch and absorb his husband for a while longer, before he sees Wilfred’s pale face watching them from the sitting room. He swoops him up into a bear hug and cuddles him on the sofa, pulling a blanket over them both.

“Daddy has to go back to work early buddy, there are lots of sick people who need him,” Arthur explains. “But we’ll say goodbye, and finish the fortress, and make pizza for supper like we planned, okay?” Wilfred nods dejectedly, and Arthur’s heart breaks for him. For both of them. “You can sleep with me tonight too, if you want? In daddy’s place?” Wilfred smiles a little and nods, cuddling closer to Arthur as they listen to Merlin moving around upstairs.

“He’s very brave isn’t he?” Wilfred mumbles, trying to comfort himself, once again echoing Morgana’s recent words. Arthur nods.“He is very, very brave, and we’re very proud of him. But you’re very brave too, for sharing him, and we’re also very proud of you.” Wilfred smiles a little more genuinely, burying his face in Arthur’s chest as Merlin comes downstairs again.

“I’m so sorry Wilf,” Merlin says, sitting on the sofa beside them, and pulling Wilfred into his arms. “You know you and papa are the most important people to me, don’t you? I love you both all the sprinkles in the baking jar, okay? I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Wilfred nods and clings to him, and Arthur grips the back of Merlin’s neck, communicating everything he can’t say out loud with his eyes. _I love you. Stay safe. Come back to us._ Merlin nods slightly and kisses his wrist.

That night Arthur cries for the first time he can remember as an adult. He pulls a sleeping Wilfred against him for comfort, and prays again and again that the universe somehow keeps them all safe.


	2. Chapter 2

The news headlines over the coming days are dire.

UK DEATHS REACH HALF A MILLION, CONFIRMED CASES NEARLY 2 MILLION

3% OF TOTAL UK POPULATION TESTS POSITIVE - BUT ONLY 4% ACTUALLY TESTED, SUGGESTING REAL FIGURES MUCH HIGHER

25% DEATH RATE FOR CONFIRMED CARRIERS

LONDON LOCKDOWN ESCALATES, AS PATIENTS ABANDONED IN STREETS

CORPSES LINING DOCKLANDS CONFERENCE CENTRE, WAITING FOR CREMATION

37 LONDON DOCTORS KILLED ON THE FRONTLINE

SUPERMARKETS SEE LOOTING, VIOLENCE AND RIOTS

MILITARY PRESENCE SWARMS THROUGH CENTRAL

Arthur scrolls through the various news alerts in his mobile news feed, topping up his gin and tonic with more gin. This time, Merlin’s been gone for five days. He tries to FaceTime home every evening before Wilfred goes to bed, and Arthur aches for him. He’s lost weight, he looks gaunt and fragile, but his cheeky, teasing grin for Arthur is the same, the warm crinkle of his eyes when Wilfred tells him about papa’s latest lessons. Arthur can _see_ the love, as he’s always been able to, radiating from Merlin’s face. He knew Merlin loved him before Merlin himself did, watching with amusement as his stubborn lover’s brain caught up with his heart.

Leaving the house is no longer a real possibility. He keeps the front gates and window grills closed and locked at all times for security. His father has arranged a private courier to drop off supplies once a week, and he realises how incredibly lucky they are to be one of the few families who can _afford_ to stay relatively safe, and relatively well-stocked. Work has almost completely dried up now that the global economy has crashed. If he wasn’t sticking to a strict routine, he’d go mad.

He wakes at 7am, makes Wilfred breakfast and sets him in front of morning kids TV, works out in their basement home gym for an hour, showers, gets Wilfred showered and dressed, and then together they complete morning chores: washing up, laundry, tidying and cleaning the house. They start lessons at 11, break for lunch at 1, return to lessons for another two hours, and have online playdates with friends and family from 3.30-4.30pm. Now the weather is brighter, these are often conducted in the garden, where Wilfred can ride his bicycle. At 4.30 they read together, or bake, at 5.15 they make supper for 6pm, Wilfred is in the bath by 7pm, and then it’s a bedtime story, FaceTime with Merlin, and lights out by 7.45pm. Arthur clears up, retreats to the sitting room with some sort of alcohol, and drinks steadily for two hours whilst he watches the news, or otherwise attempts some kind of ‘recreational’ activity. He’s discovered that reading bores him, unless it’s non-fiction. Same with TV. Apparently he enjoys David Attenborough documentaries and online solitaire. He’s in bed by 10pm. For a man who normally goes at a hundred miles an hour, it’s a very odd reversal in lifestyle, and if it wasn’t for his son, he’s not sure how well he’d be faring. He’d probably have volunteered to join the neighbourhood police, to keep their local streets as safe as possible.

On day eight of Merlin’s latest shift, when confirmed UK deaths have reached 1 million, global deaths nearly 10 million, and mass riots are breaking out in cities across the world, Arthur gets a text message from Merlin: _Pack bags, will be home in a few hours, we need to leave before midnight for your dad’s. Miss you and love you more than you will ever comprehend xxx._ He checks his watch: 3pm. He frowns and calls his dad, who has friends in Parliament, and asks what’s going on.

“No idea, son,” Uther says, “I’ll ask around. In the meantime we’ll make up the cottage for you, you just get up here safely.” Arthur begins to move robotically through a mental checklist; packing clothes, toiletries, laptops, phones, chargers, files with their important documents - marriage certificate, birth certificates, the deeds to their house - Wilfred’s books and toys. Wilfred is delighted that daddy’s coming home and they’re going on a trip together, so he helps to pack and sort enthusiastically, unaware that Arthur’s stomach is in knots; there are road blocks preventing all exit routes from London. How Merlin thinks they’re going to get out, he has no idea. He’s loathe to throw food away in their current circumstances, so he loads as much of it into cool bags for the Range Rover roof box as he can, emptying the fridge/freezer and turning it off, moving through the house and switching off plug sockets, setting the heating timer, stripping beds, throwing out rubbish. Soon it’s nearly 8pm and Arthur and Wilfred are sitting in the front room, Wilfred in his pyjamas, unpacking and repacking his backpack for the car journey, and Arthur staring at his phone, feeling sick to his boots. He jumps up when he hears the front gate squeak open, going to meet Merlin at the front door and holding up a warning finger for Wilfred to wait inside. Merlin grips him tightly, face cold from the early Spring wind.

“What’s happening?” Arthur asks urgently.

“Are you ready to leave?” Merlin replies, ignoring his question. “We’ve got to go as soon as we can.” Arthur nods.

“Car’s packed, I’ve got everything important, I think. House is ready to close up, everything is switched off and locked.”

“Good, let’s go,” Merlin says, hurrying into the sitting room to pick up an impatient Wilfred. “Is it adventure time?” he asks quietly, and Wilfred nods, beaming at him, scrambling down to get his bag. Arthur switches off the final lights, sets the house alarm, and locks the front door, helping buckle Wilfred into his car seat and then climbing in to the driver’s seat. Merlin locks the doors. “Don’t open these, whatever happens,” he instructs, putting a piece of paper on the windscreen dashboard and programming their SatNav. He puts a hand on Arthur’s knee and looks nervously out of the window. Arthur bites down the millions of questions he’s desperate to ask and pulls out of their drive, waiting for the gate to close and lock behind them before following the SatNav’s instructions. They’re heading from Maida Vale onto the Hammersmith Road, driving the normal route Arthur would expect if they were heading towards his family home in Wiltshire.

“There are road blocks before the M4,” he says quietly, conscious of Wilfred singing along to a video they’ve put on in the back for him.

“We’ll get through,” Merlin says, waving the piece of paper at him. Arthur blanches as he sees a crowd of people throwing bricks through a shop window, clambering inside to get what they can. “Don’t look and don’t stop,” Merlin urges, keeping his gaze on the road ahead.

When they eventually reach the military checkpoint, Merlin opens his window to the nearest armed solider.

“Doctor and family,” he says, “we’re being moved to MoD Boscombe Down, one of the pop-up overflow county hospitals.” He hands over his piece of paper, which the soldier scans into a computer system. He waits a moment and then nods.

“Tests?” he says. Merlin hands over another piece of paper. The soldier nods again. “Thanks for all you’re doing,” he says as he passes it back.

“You too,” Merlin smiles, as they’re waved through. Arthur waits until they’re safely on the M4 to breathe. “There will be checks again, heading into Wiltshire,” Merlin warns. “Let’s not count our chickens until we’re at your dad’s house.” Arthur’s father owns a rambling old manor house in extensive grounds; the Castle Hill Court Estate, near Upper Burytown Farm.

“What’s happening?” Arthur asks again. “What tests?” Merlin’s face crumples and Arthur glances at him as tears glisten on his cheeks, streetlights making them shine gold.

“London’s done,” Merlin says quietly. “The Health Secretary saw today’s figures and decided to close the city. And I mean _close_ it. Almost everyone in central is going to be contaminated. Every hospital in a thirty mile radius has run out of resources; doctors, nurses, beds, tests, medicine, life support, protective equipment. Trying to save lives is like trying to keep water in a sieve. Too many doctors are dying, and we need them.” Merlin glances at Arthur, whose fists have gone white clenching the steering wheel.

“Parliament is giving up a losing battle and moving resources where they can make a difference. All key workers have been given passes to get out of London - medical staff, politicians, journalists, policemen. We’re being redeployed to areas of the country that we can still help. I asked for Wiltshire - we’ve got family to stay with there and they’re setting up a military airfield hospital near Salisbury. _But_ ,” Merlin scrubs his face in frustration, “even if you’ve been given a pass, they’ll only let you out of the city if you’ve tested negative for the virus, to contain the spread. Which is a fucking joke, because we’ve run out of bloody tests!” Wilfred looks up at his father’s raised, angry voice.

“Did you just swear?” he asks curiously. Only papa normally swears.

“Sorry buddy, I didn’t mean to. I’ll sit on the naughty step later.” Wilfred tuts at him and returns his attention to Barney the magic dinosaur.

“How did we pass the testing screen then?” Arthur whispers, conscious of small ears. Merlin closes his eyes.

“I pulled up three random negative tests from the database and put our names on them to get us out. If anyone examines too closely they’ll see it’s a fake. And probably send me to jail.”

“Merls!” he hisses under his breath, furious, “why the fuck would you take a risk like that? We could have just stayed together in London.”

“Because we’d have probably died if we stayed!” Merlin hisses back, and Arthur realises they can’t argue properly whilst they’re whispering. Merlin huffs. “I’ll get three tests once I’ve signed on with the hospital and get our names properly registered on the negative database, in case anyone checks. Which they won’t, because in case you hadn’t noticed, medical administration has kind of died along with half of London. All we have to pray for is getting through the Wiltshire checkpoint, and then I’ll burn the bloody things.” Arthur feels his temples throbbing in a sure sign a migraine is coming on, not to mention the sickening terror washing through him that his husband might get arrested in the next two hours, with him and his son returned to _die_ in London.

“Sorry,” he says shortly, not wanting their last words to each other to be angry ones, if the worst happens. “I’d have done the same thing.” He knows he would have - of course he would have. Anyone with a family to protect would have. Merlin takes one of his hands and kisses it.

“None of us is displaying any symptoms, so I think we’re okay. But we didn’t have time to do this properly. There’s a quiet exodus taking place across the capital, and then at midnight tonight, lockdown. All transport in and out of London is being stopped. All roads are being blocked. There’s going to be war on the streets when Londoners realise they’ve been deserted, and that no more help is coming.”

Arthur stares at the road mutely. He feels like they’re in a zombie apocalypse movie, on the last lifeboat out of the infected land of the living dead.

“Jesus,” he says eventually.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Wilfred says from the back of the car. Merlin turns to look at him.

“Your mother recently chastised me for using said Lord’s name, several times, with swear words, on a recent Skype call,” Arthur explains. “Somebody was listening again.”

“Listening is how you learn,” Wilfred says reasonably. “Where are we going?”

“Grandpa’s house,” Merlin answers, smiling at Wilfred’s little car seat dance of celebration.

“You didn’t want to move nearer to your mother?” Arthur asks. Merlin shakes his head.

“She lives in the middle of nowhere, I can’t help anyone there, I’d have never got approval to leave the city.” Merlin squeezes Arthur’s hand. “Plus we’d kill each other in her tiny little cottage. At least at Castle Hill we’ll all have space.”

“Dad’s giving us the cottage,” Arthur agrees.

“Still traumatised from hearing the mattress springs squeaking in the East Wing last summer?” Merlin smirks.

“Grandpa said adults shouldn’t bounce on the bed in the middle of the day,” Wilfred chips in smugly, eating a fruit rollup.

“I think he said ‘bonk’ actually,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin laughs quietly, looking out at the dark, eerily empty motorway.

Arthur feels vaguely hysterical as they approach the next roadblock shortly after 11pm, desperately wishing Merlin hadn’t told him anything until they’d got home safely. He feels certain he has GUILTY stamped across his forehead, alarmed at the tell-tale nervous sweat breaking out along his hairline. Merlin simply goes still, clearly on high alert. They slow down as they approach the military blockade, powerful street lighting artificially brightening the black road. Merlin winds down his window to talk to the on-duty officer hailing them down. He peers into the car, at Wilfred sleeping in the back, and scanning a cursory glance over Arthur and then Merlin.

“Doctor,” Merlin explains, handing over his pass. “I’ve been commissioned for the new military overflow hospital at Boscombe?” The soldier nods.

“We’ve had a couple of you come through tonight,” he says agreeably, scanning the paperwork on to his phone. “I hear London’s a bad lot?”

“Awful,” Merlin says tightly. The soldier nods again.

“Some of the squad are being redeployed there later this week. Poor buggers.” He hands back the pass and takes the test paperwork Merlin’s got in hand.

“Know whereabouts they’re going?” Merlin asks conversationally, ignoring Arthur’s shaking leg.

“South West,” he replies, handing it back after a quick glance. “Never met anyone gay before.” Arthur turns to look at him disbelievingly. Merlin laughs tightly.

“A year of firsts then,” he says with a smile, putting the tests back in his bag. “Worst hit is South East, and North Central. Your mates should be alright sticking West.”

“Cheers mate,” the soldier grins, hitting the top of the car. “Best to you and yours.” He shines a flashlight at the officers ahead, clearing the road and sending them on their way. Arthur doesn’t stop shaking until they’re off the main roads, secure under the cover of country lane forests. He looks at Merlin with a strange expression.

“What?” Merlin asks, tilting his head to one side. Arthur shrugs slightly.

“You were cool as a cucumber. I never realised you were so good at lying.”

“Needs must,” Merlin comments, closing his eyes, exhaustion etched on his face. It niggles Arthur though. “I can hear you thinking,” Merlin mutters.

“I always pegged you for the type to go red and get flustered and flappy under cross-examination,” Arthur says, almost accusingly. Merlin opens an eye and blinks at him slowly.

“I’m an A&E doctor, Arthur. I am spectacularly good at responding calmly under pressure.”

“I know, but …” Arthur trails off, struggling to process his thoughts. “I didn’t realise you could still surprise me, I guess.”

“Charming,” Merlin retorts, closing his eyes again.

They arrive at Castle Hill shortly before midnight. Arthur drives up to the main house first, to pick up keys.

“Arthur!” his father says with absurd relief, pulling Arthur into a vice-like grip as he opens the front door. It’s been months since they’ve seen each other, with Arthur under lockdown in London. He looks greyer, Arthur thinks.

“Good to see you, dad,” Arthur says, hugging him back, oddly choked up. “Thanks for putting us up.”

“Don’t be silly son, this place is yours and Morgana’s anyway, when I die. Come in for a scotch?” Arthur would love to stay up and drink whisky with his father after the hell of the last few weeks. He looks back at Merlin and Wilfred asleep in the car.

“I’d love to, definitely tomorrow, but I’ve got to get those two into bed I’m afraid,” he smiles sadly. “Merlin hasn’t slept for about a week.” Uther grips his arm and shakes his head.

“What he’s doing is extraordinary, Arthur. We’re so proud of him. I know he and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but God knows what he’s had to witness since this blasted pandemic began.” Arthur nods.

“He got us out just in time. They’re shutting down the city round about now.” Uther stares at Arthur in shock, running a hand over his face tiredly.

“Tell me about it tomorrow - come up for breakfast all of you. Alice will do a full English.” Alice has been their housekeeper for nearly thirty years.

“Sounds like heaven,” Arthur grins. Uther hands him the keys to The Old Bothy, one of several cottages on the estate, but the only one not used by live-in household staff. It’s nestled on the edge of the woods, with a view of the lake. “We’ll be over for nine-ish then?” Arthur asks, and gives his father another hug before heading back to the car. It feels colder here. There’s an icy chill in the air, and he shivers as he gets in, waving at his father as they follow the drive around to a smaller track, leading down to the woods. He parks up, lights in the cottage glowing, and leans over to gently shake Merlin awake. Merlin opens his eyes with a jolt, groaning when he realises he’s still in the car.

“We’re here,” Arthur says quietly. “Get to bed, I’ll bring Wilf in and unload the car in the morning.” Merlin unbuckles his seatbelt and rubs his eyes as Arthur walks around the car to get Wilfred. His face furrows when he’s lifted out to the cold, but Arthur strokes his hair, pressing his face to his chest.

“It’s okay buddy, we’re at grandpa’s house. We’ll get you to bed and explore in the morning, okay?” Wilfred nods sleepily, and Arthur uses one hand to unlock the front door, heart filling with warmth at the familiar, cosy cottage, cleaned and prepared for their arrival. He carefully carries his son up the narrow staircase, to the small spare bedroom at the back of the house. Alice - or Morgana - has put a duvet cover with brightly coloured sailing boats on the bed, and a stack of children’s books along the window ledge. He pulls back the sheets and lowers Wilfred, pulling off his slipper shoes and drawing the covers over him again.

“Don’t I need to brush my teeth?” Wilfred mumbles, already drooling on the pillow. Arthur smiles and strokes his cheek, spirit lifted by the thought that Wilfred has the run of the grounds now. So much more freedom than in their little garden in London.

“Not tonight,” Arthur whispers. “Brush them twice in the morning instead.” Wilfred nods and is out like a light. Arthur switches the small lamp off and heads back downstairs, finding Merlin propped on the counter in the kitchen, with a large brandy in hand.

“Courtesy of your father I imagine,” he says, waving the tumbler in Arthur’s direction. There’s a basket with farm eggs, freshly baked bread, homemade fruit cake, and luxury jars of nuts. Bless his family.

“You said brandy was a drink for toffs when I met you,” Arthur comments, pouring his own - large - glass and taking a hefty swig.

“It’s 100% a drink for toffs,” Merlin confirms, picking up the bottle and heading upstairs. “But I’ve been an honorary toff since we got married, so I’ve had to learn the customs. Bring the salted cashews up will you? I don’t think I’ve eaten for two days.” He visibly drags himself up the staircase and Arthur sighs, having a quick look to see what’s in the fridge for them. He puts together a rudimentary ploughman’s, with bread, cheese, pickles, tomatoes and ham, and takes them upstairs, locking the front door and turning off lights as he goes. Merlin’s lying in his underpants on the bed, several pillows propped behind him, holding the brandy to his chest and staring into the fire someone has thoughtfully lit for them.

“It’s like being on holiday,” he comments, eyes lighting up as Arthur puts the plate on his stomach. “You really know how to treat a man,” he grins, putting his brandy on the bedside table and sitting up to devour his supper. Arthur sits down heavily on the armchair by the fire, kicking off his shoes and slowly drinking his own brandy. He feels like he’s been awake for a year. He smiles slightly watching Merlin inhale food, cheeks bulging like a squirrel, hair tufting up in odd directions. Something inside his stomach still feels uneasy, and he’s not fully sure why. Merlin finally slows down, brow furrowing as he sees Arthur contemplating him seriously.

“I don’t think I’m going to go to prison,” he says, taking a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Let’s hope not,” Arthur agrees tiredly. Merlin frowns and swallows.

“What is it?” he says with concern, putting his plate to one side. Arthur’s knackered - he knows now is not the time for this conversation. But there’s a question that’s been itching at him since the second roadblock, and he can’t resist scratching it.

“Have you ever lied to me?” he asks. Merlin looks confused.

“What?”

“Have you ever lied to me?” Arthur repeats. Merlin does flush this time, exactly the sort of response Arthur would have anticipated from him, prior to seeing his effortless lies to the military police. “When?” he asks. Merlin makes a pleading face at him.

“Arthur, does this really matter?” he asks. And no, Arthur supposes it doesn’t, not in light of the world dying, or the global economy collapsing, or their country being on the brink of civil war, or Merlin going to battle everyday. But now he knows, he knows he won’t be able to let it drop. He nods slightly. Merlin sighs and crosses his legs, resting his elbows on his knees. “Years ago, when we were first together. Before we were really us.”

“What did you lie about?” Merlin climbs off the bed and comes to sit on Arthur’s lap, pulling a rug over both of them. Arthur slides a hand around his naked waist, stroking his skin.

“Arthur, this is ridiculous,” Merlin says firmly, palms cupping Arthur’s neck. “Yes, I can lie under pressure to protect my family and avoid going to jail for something I don’t think should be an imprisonable offence in the first place, given that what the government is currently doing violates every known human right. I can lie when _it doesn’t matter_. I lied to you once, a couple of months into our relationship, when I still had - admittedly prejudiced - reservations about privately educated rich people who vote Tory, and I thought I hated people like you. I was twenty-three. I haven’t lied to you once since then, about anything, because I realised very soon afterwards that I loved you, and now I couldn’t lie to your face if I tried. What does it matter what happened back then?” Arthur keeps stroking Merlin’s skin, returning his brief kiss. He shakes his head.

“I don’t know why it matters, but it does. There’s something about our story - or you - I don’t know. And now that I know that, I won’t be able to stop wondering. You know what I’m like.” Merlin sighs, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Do you remember shortly after we started dating you went on a work trip to New York?” Arthur nods, aware of where this is probably heading. “I went to a house party with Will, at one of his friends. All arty, graphic designer types. He was teasing me for sleeping with ‘the enemy’, for undermining all my socialist values for the sake of a good shag, you know what Will’s like. I was prickly, and angry, and increasingly defensive. Eventually I pulled some random bloke at the party, kind of attractive, Irish, a photographer I think. I was trying to prove to myself - and Will - that I didn’t care. But I woke up with said dude and realised I did very much care. The thought of you being in New York doing that to me made me feel sick - and sick with myself. That was the moment I realised I was in love with you. Not very romantic, I know.” Merlin smiles self-deprecatingly. “Even before I really _knew_ you, I knew you. I knew if you found out, that’d be it. You’ve mellowed over the last few years, but back then, loyalty was totally black and white. Betrayal was absolute. You’d have broken up with me without hesitation, and I couldn’t let that happen, not once I’d discovered that you weren’t living down to my expectations at all. Somehow you were changing all of my deeply-held beliefs about humanity and proving to be the best of all the humans I knew, whatever your family background. And that’s it.” Merlin shrugs. “I stopped being a fucktard, I told Will to stop being a fucktard. When you got back to the UK I spent about four days in your bed being ravaged, as I’m sure you recall, and told _you_ that it was time we accepted the inevitable and became official. I’ve never looked back. I’m sorry I was a moron.” Arthur huffs, wrapping his arms tightly around Merlin and kissing his shoulder. Some part of him wants to be angry, but he isn’t. The life they’ve had together since then is worth too much for that.

“You’re very good at keeping secrets,” he chides half-heartedly.

“I’m very good at most things,” Merlin responds with a small smile, leaning in to kiss Arthur in warm, loving apology. Arthur kisses him back, fingers trailing up his spine, carding into his hair, still surprised by the overwhelming lust Merlin inspires in him, even after all these years. Even when he’s had him in all the ways you can have someone, and too many times to count. “Do we have anything inside?” Merlin whispers, mouthing at Arthur’s neck, sliding a hand down to his crotch, “or is everything in the car?” Their lube is in Arthur’s suitcase, firmly lodged in the car boot.

“I can go down,” Arthur says, mind going fuzzy as Merlin unbuttons his shirt, one hand still firmly pressing against his cock.

“That’s okay, we’ll make do,” Merlin says, standing up and undressing Arthur efficiently, kicking off his own boxers as he pushes Arthur down to the bed and climbs on top of him. Arthur closes his eyes, hands caressing Merlin’s head as he works his way down Arthur’s body, hot mouth kissing and gently biting all his most sensitive areas en route to his cock, where eventually Merlin envelops him in wet heat, sucking slowly and firmly, patiently taking Arthur apart. Arthur opens his eyes to watch the dark head bobbing between his thighs, turned on, as always, by Merlin’s total dedication to a task, his unwavering focus on achieving whatever he sets his mind - and mouth - to. Arthur knows he won some kind of lottery, meeting Merlin. The idea of a life spent without his headstrong, belligerent, challenging, fiercely, passionately loyal and loving husband is unthinkable. He sighs as Merlin tongues at his head, licking down the underside of his cock, and begins to thrust gently into Merlin’s mouth, tightening his grip in Merlin’s hair as his orgasm builds, head falling back as he comes powerfully, bleary-eyed at the exquisite perfection of Merlin’s lips, caressing him as he returns from his high, nuzzling his thighs, his lower belly. Arthur pulls Merlin up by the hair, rolling on top of him and kissing him hungrily, tasting himself on Merlin’s lips.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs, tongue tangling with Merlin’s, hand working between their bodies to take hold of Merlin’s weeping cock.

“Better me than Covid-22,” Merlin snarks, gasping as Arthur twists the head, fingers moving lower to rub his perineum. “Am I forgiven?” he chokes out with difficulty, face already a picture of anguished pleasure.

“No,” Arthur says tiredly, rolling Merlin on to his belly, “but I love you too much to hold grudges, and you’re kind of a hero at the moment, which means you’ve earned an exemption.” Merlin smiles into his pillow, wiggling his arse as Arthur kisses down his spine, peeling Merlin’s legs open to bury his face between Merlin’s softly rounded cheeks. The stuttering whimpers Merlin makes when Arthur rims and tongue-fucks him are probably his favourite sounds in the world. Merlin is the most responsive lover he’s ever had, totally unabashed about sharing his body, totally embracing of sex and all its intimacies. He can’t help but rub himself against the bed, softly humping the duvet beneath him, gasping as Arthur kisses his most private area and simultaneously begins to stroke him to completion. It doesn’t take long for his body to stiffen as he pumps himself to a sticky finish in the sheets beneath him, groaning as he collapses into the messy puddle of his own wetness. Arthur makes as if to move upwards but Merlin shakes his head, reaching a hand around to hold Arthur’s head in place.

“Kiss me for a bit longer,” he asks, and Arthur smiles, returning to softly licking and kissing Merlin’s hole, delighting in his over-sensitised shivers. Eventually he feels Merlin’s body go truly lax, and works his way up to the pillows, pulling the duvet over them both, and leaning over to switch off both lights. Just the embers of the fire glow, shrouding the room in a molten, shadowy amber.

“I’m actually very wet,” Merlin complains, rolling over with a huff, until he’s largely lying across Arthur’s body, instead of the sheets.

“Better?” Arthur asks wryly, stroking Merlin’s spine, relaxing now that he’s got Merlin’s warm, beating heart in his arms again. Merlin nods sleepily against his chest.

“Love you more,” Merlin says, and Arthur grins at his competitiveness.

“Not possible,” he promises.


	3. Chapter 3

“You shouldn’t be working,” Uther says categorically over breakfast the following morning. Arthur glances at his still-fatigued husband, carefully focusing on his black pudding. “You’re putting Arthur and Wilfred at risk, Merlin,” he chastises him. “You’ve done your bit, now take some annual leave and self-isolate with the rest of us.”

“That’s not really how it works,” Merlin says lightly, spearing a grilled tomato. “Imagine you train for decades in the military to preserve public safety, and reach a position of command, where it’s up to you to lead men through battle, and then a war comes along - the exact scenario for which you have spent your entire career preparing - and you suddenly decide to take a sabbatical because you don’t much fancy the danger after all, screw your comrades, and the general public. What sort of man would that make you?”

“A living one,” Uther replies waspishly.

“It’ll be far safer than it was in London,” Merlin comments neutrally.

“Pfft,” Uther scoffs, “field hospitals. You’ll be limited on equipment. If you don’t catch the virus from your patients, you’ll catch it from your colleagues instead.” Merlin shrugs.

“We all die one day.” He’s being deliberately flippant; it’s how he deals with Uther. Uther shakes his head and turns to Arthur.

“Can’t you talk some sense into him?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“When, in the history of knowing him, has _that_ been possible?” he asks bluntly. Merlin glares at him, eyes flashing.

“If you won’t stop working, you should move to the hospital base,” Uther says dismissively. “You’re endangering my grandson.”

“Merlin’s not going anywhere, dad,” Arthur says tiredly. “If you want us to find somewhere to rent, to protect all of you, that’s fine. But we can do that from the cottage too. It just means no more family gatherings.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Uther says impatiently, stopping abruptly when Morgana puts a restraining hand on his arm.

“How do you like our new chickens, Wilf?” she asks with faux enthusiasm, mouthing ‘sorry’ at Merlin as Uther turns his attention to his grandson’s soliloquy about the magnificence of egg hunting at dawn (Arthur is exhausted).

“You could have defended me,” Merlin mutters accusingly later, head pressed against the stone wall of their cottage kitchen as Arthur fucks into him from behind. Morgana has taken Wilfred rhubarb picking, to give them some alone time. He groans as Arthur nudges his prostate, teeth grazing his neck.

“I did” Arthur murmurs, nosing his skin, “I said you weren’t going anywhere.”

“We’re back _five bloody minutes_ and already you’re trying to please him,” Merlin continues undeterred, as though he hasn’t heard Arthur. “Where was the whole ‘we’re a family’ speech this time?” Arthur sighs and pauses in his thrusts, running a thumb around the place where he’s joined to Merlin’s body, buried to the root, tightly squeezed.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks patiently. Merlin turns around to look at him, going cross-eyed.“Why would I want to stop?” he asks confused. Arthur pulls a face at him.

“It doesn’t feel right, doing this whilst we’re fighting,” he protests, trying to withdraw, but Merlin reaches a hand back to hold him in place.

“We’re _discussing_ , not fighting,” Merlin says plaintively. “I need you inside me, it’s been too long.” Arthur resumes his slow journey in and out, stroking Merlin firmly until he gasps and comes shuddering against the wall. Arthur follows soon after, biting Merlin’s shoulder in relief. He pulls up Merlin’s boxers and turns him around to kiss him, before pushing a mug towards him; they’d only meant to pause for a quick break from unpacking, trying to turn the house into a home for Wilfred. They sit at the scrubbed breakfast bar opposite each other, eating yoghurt from the same pot and slurping their tea.

“Would it be so very bad to stay at home now?” Arthur asks. Merlin’s eyes flick up sharply.

“You agree with him?” he asks mutinously.

“About the fact you’ll probably be in just as much - if not more - danger, yes. But I want you to stay at home to keep _you_ safe, not me or Wilfred.”

“You knew who I was when you married me,” Merlin says, as neutrally as he can manage. “You know I won’t change, Arthur.”

“And neither will I,” Arthur says, standing his ground. “You always push yourself too hard, and I always step in to pull you back before you do yourself harm. You’ve been working around the clock for months, you’re due - massively _overdue_ \- a break. Take a couple of weeks off and go back, once they’ve set up properly. We need you too.”

“It’ll be more manageable here, I should be home every couple of days.”

“Yes, to sleep, and eat, and catch up on orgasms, and whatever else you need,” Arthur says acerbically, immediately regretting his words as Merlin flinches, face darkening. “When was the last time you just chilled out with Wilf? Say this epidemic lasts a year, maybe more - are you going to work without a single holiday, and miss a whole year of Wilf’s life? You’re a doctor, yes, but you’re also a father and a husband. Whatever the national crisis, you’re still allowed the occasional attempt at _balance_. You’re a human with needs too.” Merlin puts his spoon in the pot and stands up, twitching slightly.

“I’m full of semen, I need to clean up,” he says briskly, closing down the conversation. He wets a piece of kitchen roll and cursorily wipes down the mess he made on the wall, throwing the soiled paper in the dustbin. “I’ll finish Wilf’s room and then unpack my stuff,” he says. “I’ll pop over to the hospital later, see if they’ve got some spare testing kits. I’ll be back in time for supper, I can do bath-time tonight.” Arthur ignores him, inwardly fuming that in the current climate of crisis, he seems to have no voice in this relationship. He knows he’s being selfish, but he’s human, and he’s reached breaking point. “You’re being a prick,” Merlin informs him crossly, leaving the kitchen and banging the door behind him.

Arthur spends the rest of the day helping Gaius (Alice’s husband, and their gardener) and Morgana’s husband Leon (Arthur’s oldest friend) with jobs around the kitchen gardens. Planting and picking and pruning is oddly therapeutic. Wilfred and Morgana come to help when Merlin heads off to the hospital, and they’re all eating supper in the conservatory when Merlin eventually gets home. He eats a little, making polite conversation with Leon at a safe distance from Arthur and Uther’s end of the table. Once they’ve finished, and Alice comes to clear everything away, Merlin picks up Wilfred and looks to Arthur.

“I’m taking him home for a bath and then a _mammoth_ story session,” he says, widening his eyes and smiling at a grinning Wilfred. Arthur nods.

“I’ll join you later,” he replies tersely, noticing the flicker of emotion crossing Merlin’s face, the tightly clenched jaw. Merlin shrugs slightly, raising an eyebrow, and turns to say goodnight to everyone.

“Thanks for supper Alice!” he calls on their way out.

“How about that Scotch?” Uther says amiably, nodding his head towards the drawing room. Arthur grins and follows him through, settling down in front of a blazing fire to catch up with his family.

It’s midnight before Arthur stumbles home, leaving Morgana and Leon to sort out a lightly snoring Uther. He tiptoes up the stairs as quietly as possible, cursing as he stubs his foot and makes a row of little tin soldiers clatter noisily as he bumps into a bookcase on the landing. Merlin switches on the bedside lamp as he creeps into their bedroom, rolling over to look at him.

“You’re drunk,” he says with an unimpressed grimace. “I can smell the booze on you from here.”

“Well deduced, dear Watson,” Arthur snarks, attempting to unbutton his shirt with absolutely zero hand-eye coordination.

“Oh, I’m the long-suffering sidekick, am I?” Merlin asks wryly, putting an arm behind his head.

“I’m Sherlock,” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose. “ _Obviously_. And you are my partner in crime. Ergo, Watson.”

“Obviously,” Merlin agrees, watching him swaying as he tries to take off his jeans. “Spend the evening talking about what a disappointing son-in-law I am? The absentee father and husband, always fucking up the social _etiquette_.” Arthur turns to look at him tiredly.

“Yes Merlin, that’s exactly it. We all spend our evenings talking about you and how dreadful you are. Ten steps ahead of the rest of us, as always.” He claps mockingly and sits heavily on the bed, finally free of his clothes, and leaning down to peel off his socks.

“I’m getting déjà vu,” Merlin murmurs. “I’m fairly certain we had this exact argument the first time you brought me home and introduced me to everyone.” Arthur frowns.

“Then we _were_ actually talking about you,” he hiccups, pulling back the duvet and snuggling under its downy softness. “Once you’d stormed off to bed after that ferocious argument about Margaret Thatcher, Dad went on for quite some time about how you were a gold-digging bleeding-heart liberal leftie with no manners, and told me I’d grow out of it.” He turns to look at Merlin. “I didn’t.” Merlin’s face softens and he twists his way into Arthur’s embrace, wrapping a leg around Arthur’s and curling his arm around Arthur’s chest, the other hand in his hair. He’s naked and warm and everything Arthur loves, so he kisses him and holds him tighter, whole soul pressing itself as close as possible to Merlin’s.

“You were so angry with me for deliberately provoking him,” Merlin remembers, “I’d never seen you angry before.”

“I’d pretty much got used to you being angry with me by then,” Arthur shrugs.

“We broke a chair having angry-sex,” Merlin smiles. “You made me all discombobulated and compliant and then told me you loved me.”

“I’m wily,” Arthur says smugly. Merlin kisses his neck softly, and Arthur brushes his fingers through Merlin’s tangled mop. “I love you more than anyone,” he whispers seriously, “even when you drive me mad.”

“Ditto,” Merlin nods emphatically, kissing his jaw, and sighing in approval as Arthur strokes down his back. They lie quietly for a while, Arthur slowly drifting off, before Merlin props himself on an elbow and turns Arthur’s face to his. “If you seriously tell me to quit, I will.” Arthur shakes his head and rolls on top of Merlin, pressing him into the mattress.

“I would never ask that of you,” he says quietly, leaning down to kiss Merlin with aching tenderness. Merlin’s heart feels squeezed; there’s nothing in the world more powerful, or affirming, than being _known_ , and seen, and loved unconditionally for who you are, cherished just as much for your faults and your challenges as your strengths. Of all the gifts in life, finding that, pure belonging, is the most precious, and the most rare. They make love slowly, sweetly, devotedly, totally lost in each other, argument completely forgotten.

*

They’ve settled into a new routine in Wiltshire. It’s hard to feel the world is ending when ‘isolating’ means living in an old country house, in idyllic, rural countryside, with family and old friends and happy dogs and chickens and ducks residing with you, sharing mealtimes and games nights and childcare responsibilities. If it weren’t for the daily news at six, which they tend to watch together before supper, reeling off ever-staggering new numbers - 25,000 new deaths a day, 50,000 new cases, 30% rise in gang violence in desperate city centres, revolt at military repression - Arthur would feel like he was on an odd sort of holiday.

Merlin does get home more regularly, but he’s understandably exhausted, angry, frustrated, worried. Junior doctors and nurses at his base are dropping like flies, struggling with inadequate protection. Merlin tested their family early on, as promised, to make sure their ‘negative’ test results were properly logged on the national database, but tests are once again running scarce, and the daily fight to keep as many people alive as possible is reducing the NHS to tatters.

It comes as a shock, when having established a new sort of normality, a telephone call comes through on a Wednesday morning, Alice calling Arthur inside from where he’s rebuilding a crumbling stretch of wall.

“Arthur Pendragon?” the voice on the other end of the phone enquires. It’s a man. He sounds Indian.

“Yes?” Arthur confirms, confused.

“Doctor Merlin Emrys-Pendragon’s husband?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms again, heart stuttering.

“I’m Doctor Bhaskar. I’m afraid Doctor Emrys collapsed about an hour ago,” the voice says. “Almost certainly with Covid-22. Has he been displaying symptoms?” Arthur tries to think back to the last time he saw Merlin, three days ago, as his brain scrambles.

“He had a headache,” Arthur remembers. “He felt cold, said he was tired, he slept a lot.”

“Outside the hospital, who has he had contact with?”

“Just my family,” Arthur says numbly. “He lives with us.”

“Physical contact?” Doctor Bhaskar asks.

“Me and our son,” Arthur replies tonelessly, feeling robotic.

“You should all begin a period of self-isolation,” the doctor informs him with sympathetic efficiency. “Symptoms normally appear within a week of contact with an infected person.”

“Can I see him?” Arthur asks in a panic.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Doctor Bhaskar answers. “We’re not letting civilians on base, for their own protection.”

“He’s my husband,” Arthur says firmly. “He’s been working himself to death for the last six months. Surely you can make an exception. For him. Please?” There’s a hesitation at the other end of the phone. Eventually a cleared throat.

“We’re all very fond of Merlin,” the doctor says. “Come after 10pm and say you have an appointment with me. I’ll get you in.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says with heartfelt gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

Arthur tells his family, who agree that there’s no real point in self-isolating, because they’ve all had physical contact with Wilfred, and so if one of them has it, all of them will have it. The latest science seems to suggest that coming into contact with an infected person might give you the disease, but only mild symptoms. The immune system seems able to cope with just one dose of virus. The danger is when a person comes into contact with _multiple_ infected persons, getting several doses of the virus, which then overloads and collapses their immune systems. It’s why people in concentrated centres of population - and doctors - are at such high risk.

He leaves Wilfred in the main house under Morgana’s care as he drives to the military airfield. They wave him through once he’s been through security, and he parks and heads into a makeshift reception. It’s like something from an alien invasion sci-fi movie. Everything is plastic, all the medical and administrative staff are walking around in hazmat suits, industrial plastic gloves and boots, gas masks. Arthur can’t believe Merlin works here.

“Arthur?” a kind voice asks. Arthur turns to see a bald Indian man in a white lab coat, plastic goggles and gloves and a face mask, looking far more normal.

“We can’t examine patients rigged up in that,” he nods, seeing Arthur’s surprise. “Here.” He hands Arthur a spare mask, set of goggles, and gloves, and asks him to follow him through. They walk through a warren of makeshift curtain-cubicles, thousands of harried nurses and doctors and army officers moving the dead, checking on the dying, examining the still living. A cold horror fills Arthur at the reality of the situation. He blinks in disbelief as they wind their way towards the distant end of the hangar, down to a slightly quieter set of cubicles, set up between makeshift offices, and staff breakout spaces.

“We try to keep the doctors and nurses up here,” Doctor Bhaskar informs him. “We can keep a closer eye on them. We need as many as possible back on the frontline. That’s what we tell the government anyway, if we get asked about preferential treatment.” Arthur feels choked up and he nods his thanks at the quiet reassurance the doctor is trying to give him; Merlin is being given the best care, and whatever resources are available, despite the queues of waiting patients. He shakes the doctor’s hand as he’s left in the curtained space that cocoons a bed, surrounded by drips and machines - ventilators, heart monitors - Merlin covered by a thin cotton blanket in the middle. Merlin blinks in his direction slowly, and Arthur hurries over, realising that he’s awake. He takes off his jacket and puts it over Merlin’s chest, rubbing his arms to try and warm him up; he’s shivering violently.

“Don’t you have any more bloody blankets?” Arthur asks, perching on the side of the bed and putting a palm on Merlin’s cheek. Merlin shakes his head. He can’t speak; the ventilator covers his mouth, helping him to breath artificially. Tears fill his eyes and Arthur bends down to kiss them away, stroking the purple skin with his thumbs. “You’re going to be fine,” Arthur whispers. “Doctor Bhaskar is pulling out all the stops. I did some research, and it looks like most people who collapse go into a coma, and they’re the ones that die. You’re not in a coma, so you have a better chance of pulling through, right? It means your body is fighting it?” Merlin nods at him, moving a hand slowly to rest against Arthur’s leg. “Wilfred’s fine,” Arthur continues, answering all the questions he knows Merlin would ask, if he could. “He’s with Morgana. None of us have symptoms. Everyone sends their love, including your mum.” Merlin’s face crumples, but he nods, fingers stroking Arthur’s thigh. Arthur kicks off his shoes and climbs on to the bed, nudging his way alongside Merlin, careful not to disrupt any of the wires or cables attaching him to mechanical life force. He puts his jacket over the both of them, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s thin frame, slowly rubbing his arms until Merlin stops shivering, warming up with Arthur’s body heat. His breathing evens out, heart and pulse rate slowing in Arthur’s presence, fingers entwined with Arthur’s.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” Arthur murmurs, close to his ear. “Seeing you for the first time all those years ago, in that ridiculous red suit at a black tie event, determined to make a point, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Merlin begins to cry again, squeezing his fingers. “And I couldn’t be more proud of you, and everything you’ve done to keep the world safe. You’re mine, you hear me? I’m not letting you go.” Merlin nods again, smiling around his breathing tube, and Arthur settles beside him, listening to his heart, until they both fall asleep.

He wakes up with a crick in his neck, dawn light filtering through the cracks in the hangar walls, Merlin’s long fingers stroking his hair. He has more colour to his face, and he’s looking down at Arthur with familiar love.

“Feeling stronger?” Arthur says gruffly, voice thick with sleep. Merlin nods, removing his mouthpiece, voice hoarse.

“Fever’s gone, I’m breathing a bit better. They’re going to keep me on this thing until lunch, just in case. If I’m breathing normally by this evening, it means my body is able to fight the virus on its own, like flu. I’ll be able to come home.” His voice has almost disintegrated, and he’s noticeably breathless with the effort of talking, putting the mouthpiece back in and closing his eyes as his lungs fill with oxygen again. Arthur cuddles him, closing his eyes.

“Knew you’d fight the bastard,” he says approvingly. There’s the polite clearing of a throat behind him, and Arthur turns to see Doctor Bhaskar smiling at him. He sits up hastily.

“All his vitals have improved,” the doctor reassures him. “We’re hoping to discharge him later. Normally we’d want to monitor patients for at least another 24 hours, but we need the equipment,” he admits sadly. Arthur understands completely - they can use it to save another life.

“We’ll look after him at home,” he says immediately. “I can wait to take him back, or come back later. What does he need?” Doctor Bhaskar rummages for a pen and paper in his pocket, writing items down.

“Paracetamol, to keep the fever down, lots of fluid - hot water and honey is good, the sugar will give him energy. Soup if he can manage it. Sleep. Keep your mask on around him until his temperature is stable, and his lungs clear. That’s when he’ll stop being infectious. Keep your son away from him until then.” Arthur nods seriously.

“I’ll take him home to the cottage and look after him myself. We’ll stay clear of everyone until he’s on the mend.” Doctor Bhaskar smiles.

“He always says you are the world’s best husband, and a good man. I think he is right.” Arthur flushes slightly, looking down at his partner, who seems to be sleeping.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” Arthur says, “all of you. You saved his life.” The doctor inclines his head.

“As he has saved so many thousands of lives himself,” he replies modestly. “I’m afraid we’ll need you off base before inspections, civilians aren’t supposed to be here. I’ll call later, when he’s ready to come home.” Arthur nods, climbing off the bed with a stretch, leaving his jacket tucked around Merlin.

“Tell him I’ll see him soon,” Arthur asks on his way out, and the doctor's eyes crinkle as he nods his promise.

Arthur thanks the heavens, a hundred times over, when Merlin is home, and tucked up in their bed, cosy in Arthur’s sweater and with a hot water bottle and socks to keep him warm. His breathing is still slow, but steady, and he smiles as Arthur fusses, taking paracetamol and camomile and honey and tomato soup without complaint. He keeps a face mask on, when he’s not eating and drinking, and he insists that Arthur keeps his on too.

“I feel weird, both of us lying here with masks on,” Arthur comments, finally tucked up in bed beside him. “It’s not very sexy, is it?” Merlin snorts, pushing a leg between Arthur’s.

“I don’t know. I always find you sexy.” Arthur grins, tucking an errant curl behind Merlin’s ear. “You’re the best person I know,” Merlin says seriously, putting a cold hand on Arthur’s neck. “Forcing your way into a military hospital to see me, with no thought whatsoever for your own safety. It’s very dashing.”

“Dashing?” Arthur smirks. “My how you’ve changed. Such behaviour would have earned me an ‘arrogant, entitled pillock’ title when you were younger.”

“Well, you’re those things too,” Merlin quips easily. They fall asleep holding hands, and wake up tangled together, and spend the morning in a steaming bath, slowly stroking each other to completion. Arthur gasps as he comes against the small of Merlin’s back, Merlin’s release already floating among the bubbles on the surface of the water, and he takes his mask off to kiss Merlin’s neck, revelling in their closeness, in his husband’s safety.

By his third day at home, Merlin has fully recovered, and beams as he runs around the garden chasing Wilfred, having finally booked a fortnight off work. Arthur watches them playing together with a smile, sitting in a warm patch of sunlight next to the potting shed, delighting in the scene in front of him. His father lazily swotting away bees, Morgana painting some old wicker chairs, Leon reading a newspaper, Gaius digging up lettuce, Alice hanging out laundry, and his beautiful husband flushed and healthy, eyes sparkling as he swings around their squealing son, blowing a kiss in Arthur’s direction when he sees him watching.

Very suddenly he can’t breathe, putting a hand on his chest as he tries to draw breath into his lungs, a wave of dizzying nausea knocking him sideways, as the world spins, the sky above him so very blue.

“Arthur!” he hears vaguely, as if through water, and then Merlin is by his side, urgently pumping his chest, hands on his face, ordering his family to stay back, pressing kisses to Arthur’s head. “Arthur, hold on,” Merlin whispers desperately against his ear. “An ambulance is on its way. Look at me, Arthur.” Arthur tries to focus on Merlin’s tear-stained face, shaking his head at Merlin’s anguish. “You’re mine, you hear me?” Merlin says furiously, repeating Arthur’s words from the hospital back to him, “I’m not letting you go.” Arthur smiles.

“I love you,” he manages to breathe. And then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in tribute to all the emergency services workers, who daily risk their lives for us all.


End file.
